


Broken

by Melpomene (nonamenuisance)



Series: The Darkness We All Know [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Awesome Librarians, Child Abuse, College, Depression, Domestic Violence, Foster Care, Gen, High School, It's not really major character death, Little bit of rambling about Descartes, Moblit is awesome, Nanaba uses zie/zir pronouns, Neglect, Non-binary character, POV First Person, POV Hange Zoë, Self-Harm, Short Chapters, Spouse Abuse, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, but there isn't a tag for minor character death, female Hanji, so i put major anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6739447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonamenuisance/pseuds/Melpomene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hanji had a rough childhood.  Her parents abandoned her as a baby.  The only father she had ever known died.  She was alone, and unloved.  </p><p>Can be read as an individual work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love Lies Bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> So here is the first chapter of Hanji's backstory! 
> 
> Just a warning, this is pretty messed up, and I know that. Please keep all comments/constructive criticism polite. If you have problems with the portrayal anything, let me know calmly and respectfully, and we can talk about it.
> 
> Also, just as clarification. There are a lot of time skips in this, since it spans from Hanji's childhood until after she graduates college with her doctorate.

_Hello, hello,_  
_Anybody out there? Cause I don't hear a sound._  
_Alone, alone,_  
_I don't really know where the world is but I miss it now._

_I'm out on the edge and I'm screaming my name,_  
_Like a fool at the top of my lungs._  
_Sometimes when I close my eyes I pretend I'm alright,_  
_But it's never enough._

_Cause my echo, echo_  
_Is the only voice coming back._  
_Shadow, shadow_  
_Is the only friend that I have._

_\--Echo, by Jason Walker_

* * *

  


I was four, and feeling angry, hurt, and lonely. In a desperate attempt to release my pent up rage, I picked up a rock and launched it through my bedroom window. After the glass blew into a million tiny shards, scattered all across the bedroom floor, I realized that I’d been injured in my emotional tantrum. A few shards of glass had flown into my arm, and blood began to spill. In a strange way, I felt a sense of relief. The physical pain seemed to serve as a distraction from the psychological and emotional pain that I endured on a daily basis. 

My window was shattered beyond repair, but so was my life, and no one seemed to care. It came as no surprise that the adults who were supposed to be caring for me never noticed the broken window or the bleeding lacerations on my arm. It didn’t come as a surprise, because I didn’t exist. I was invisible.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


At five, I was learning how to change a diaper and prepare bottles. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to. There was a baby boy. I didn’t know where he came from. I didn’t think that the adults I lived with had given birth to him. Birth parents loved their children, but they didn’t love him. He was left in a swing all day, screaming in hunger, sitting in his own filth. I was the only one who loved him. He was my baby, and I was his mother. 

I tried to take care of him, but it was hard. He would always wiggle and cry when I tried to change his diaper. I let him sleep in my lousy excuse for a bed, but would often wake up because I had rolled on top of him. It scared me. What if I killed him in my sleep? It would probably be the merciful thing to do, if I was being honest with myself. This wasn’t a home. It wasn’t life. This was nothing but hell.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Three weeks after the baby appeared, he left as mysteriously as he came. One morning, he wasn’t in my bed. I looked all over the house, but couldn’t find him anywhere. 

A year after that, I was taken away. Finally, someone noticed the “unfit situation” I was living in. They took me to stay with an old man who lived in Trost. 

I had never been to Trost. Part of me was hopeful that this home would be different. Just a small part of me. The rest was cynical; why would he love me? An invisible girl?  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


I had nothing to fear. It took a long time, but I eventually welcomed the love and care that Papa showed me. He was kind, sweet, and gentle. 

He gave me the hugs that I had needed for so long. The attention that I had craved. The love I had needed.

He was my family.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“Now see, Hanji. This flower is in the Amaranth genus. Flowers belonging to that genus symbolize eternity and immortality.” Papa was bent over in the garden, pointing with a wrinkled and worn hand at a deep red bloom that cascaded down in ropes from where it protruded from the plant.

“Amaranth? That’s a pretty name. What’s the flower called?” I crouched down beside him, feeling the need to move quietly as though if I created too much noise I’d scare the blossoms away. 

“Love Lies Bleeding.”

“How tragic. Immortality, an agonizing love, and eternity.” I whispered, feeling drawn closer and closer to the gothic sounding flower. 

“Yes. Very tragic indeed.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Tomorrow was my first day of high school. I was terrified. Papa kept telling me that Trost was a good school, that I’d make a lot of friends and learn a lot. The learning I was excited for. Making friends, not so much. It had never come easy. Most people didn’t like me. I was weird. Overly excited by science, not caring for fashion or makeup, and completely uninterested in things that they were obsessed with. 

Sex was a prime example. Last year, it was all that my fellow students talked about. Harassing each other about how far they’ve gone, creating elaborate lies about their sexual prowess in the hopes of impressing their crush. It was nauseating. I hadn’t understood what the big obsession was. I mean sure, it supposedly felt nice, but so did having people play with your hair, or burying yourself in a pile of warm laundry fresh from the dryer. 

I had mentioned these thoughts to Papa during summer break. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t care as much about sex as my peers did. There had to be something wrong with me, I had told him. I wasn’t normal. I was broken, or sick. I had to be. I didn’t fit the majority. In experiments, the mouse that is different is always a mutant of some sorts. I was the different mouse. Looking the same as the rest on the outside, but being totally twisted up inside.

Papa though, was so encouraging. He pulled up a pretty looking website and told me about something called asexuality. The calming purple and gray colors on the screen drew me in and I was fascinated with all the information and confessions that were posted there. 

Papa had told me I was normal. That I was beautiful. Unique, smart, perfect. I cried at that. Nobody had told me any of that before. None of my foster parents had cared for me like Papa did. 

He and his husband had tried dozens of times to adopt a child, but the agencies kept turning them down. They tried for years, but before they could succeed, Papa’s husband had a car wreck. He slipped into a coma, and eventually Papa reached the point where he couldn’t pay for life support. The doctors pulled the plug, and Papa was left alone. His family had shunned him back when he came out to them as a teen. He had a few acquaintances, but none of them were very close since they had only recently moved to Trost. Eventually, he couldn’t take the loneliness and applied to host a kid in the foster system. I asked him why once, after dinner when we sat around reading aloud to each other. He had said that he thought that if he found someone as alone as he was, that together we could stop being lonely.

I smiled at the memory. I was sitting on my bed, looking over a collection of photos we had taken together. There was one of us at the natural sciences museum, posing in terror of the dinosaur skeleton on display behind us. Another from when we, flushed and sweaty, had hiked up a small mountain. One of me bundled up in a grand total of five blankets, snuggled up with a cup of tea and a copy of The Chronicles of Narnia. One that I had taken of Papa asleep, spread out on his bed like a starfish, gray hair sticking up in all directions.

Hearing a knock on my bedroom door, I glanced up and saw Papa in the doorway. He would never come in without an invitation, even when the door was open. 

“Hi Hanji!” He called with his gravely old man voice. “I have something for you. May I come in?” 

His arms were held behind his back, effectively hiding what his hands held. I nodded, perking up on my bed, excited to see what he had.

One arm was pulled out, and in it he held a book. _The Interpretation of Dreams_ by Sigmund Freud. The other arm quickly followed, and was clutching a bouquet of Irises.

Before I could squeal, he spoke words that would haunt me for the rest of my life, even though I didn’t know it then.

“Irises represent wisdom. You’re going to be a high-schooler now, and I know your nervous, but there’s no need to be. These flowers represent you. You are incredibly bright, Hanji. You can do anything that you want, if you study hard. Anything. Never give up.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Papa died.

A few weeks after I started my freshman year, a heart attack took him away from me. My only family. The only parent I had ever known. Gone. 

Gone. 

His funeral was lonely. Nobody was there. Just me, the minister, and the two child service workers who were to take me to a new family that could never replace the one I lost. 

Where would I go now? What would happen to me? Once again, I was alone in the world. A fledgling bird, too young to fly, and yet without a nest. Floating powerlessly in the grip of a wind that I could only hope was merciful. Caught in a current and being pulled out to sea.

If Papa were here, he would have reminded me that the sea leads to many places. 

It didn’t matter. No matter where I wound up, if Papa wasn’t there to tuck me in at night, then it would never be good enough.

There were three teenagers on skateboards riding through the cemetery. They were whooping and hollering. It made me angry. Papa was dead. Why were they not crying? Screaming? Where was their pain? Their sorrow? The most wonderful human alive was alive no longer. 

I’d never see his lopsided smile again when he got excited about botany. Never hear his raspy morning voice as he brewed a pot of coffee so strong that it defied the very laws of science. No more of his mischievous pranks that he’d spring on me randomly throughout the year. According to the lawyers, there were some issues with debt and his will. None of it made sense to me, but they summed it up clearly. The only one of his belongs I would have to remember him by were his glasses.

The sun was shining and the birds were singing. There was a bumblebee buzzing his way along, bouncing from chrysanthemum to chrysanthemum. It disgusted me.

Papa had taught me once that chrysanthemums stood for the death of a loved one. It was only fitting that they grew throughout the cemetery. If only they weren’t such cheerful colors. There was nothing happy about death. Nothing beautiful.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


“This is the Berner family. You will be staying with them throughout the rest of High School, hopefully.”

The Berners looked nice. Happy, smiling, and hugging. They had a son, Moblit. He was a year older than me. 

Even though the Berners painted a good picture, something felt off about the whole situation. Moblit, in particular, didn’t seem to mesh nicely with the “healthy, happy family” scene his parents tried so hard to paint. I noticed how he stiffened when hugged, the tightness in his smile, the wary look in his eyes.

For the first month that I stayed with them, everything was fine. They treated me nice, always asked about school, got excited about my good grades. But throughout it all, I couldn’t shake that underlying feeling of dread.

Something was wrong.


	2. Erica Carnea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday! (Well, in two hours, it will be Monday in my timezone, but CLOSE ENOUGH, RIGHT?) The trip was _amazing!!!_ Thanks to all those who left words of encouragement when I was rambling about heights and flying. The whole trip went wonderfully. THERE WAS COSPLAY AND I WENT AS KANEKI BUT NOBODY RECOGNIZED ME. I clearly don't hang out with the right people...
> 
> I wish I was able to get this uploaded last Monday like I'd hoped, but there was a lot of packing to be done last minute.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! And please, remember; this story is tagged with graphic descriptions of violence. We're don't get too graphic in this, but child and spouse abuse (both physical and emotional) is talked about heavily, along with self-harm.

The Berners’ didn’t stay nice. At least, the parents didn’t. Moblit was kind to me, when we were alone or his parents were too drunk to care. He would sneak into my room at night and help me with my quadratic equations, give me tips on how to survive High School, even sneak me food on the many, many days when his parents refused to feed me.

I was a drain on their resources they said. The money the government paid them to house me had to go toward Mrs. Berner’s ailing health. 

If she didn’t drink so much fucking alcohol, I doubt she’d have half the issues she does. The fact that Mr. Berner hit her didn’t help anything either.

I rubbed at my temples to ease the throbbing in my head. I was getting frequent migraines, and had been for a while now. My guess was that my eyesight was going bad. The text on my books at school and been getting blurrier and blurrier. But eyeglasses cost money; money that Moblit couldn’t scrounge up. If I was old enough to get a job, then it might have worked that I could get some, but no one was going to hire a fifteen-year-old kid. Especially one that looked like I did. I was grubby and far too thin. My hair had split ends, and even though I tried my hardest to take care of it, it frizzed out like a lion’s mane. The clothes I had were old and never fit quite right, either hanging off my frame like some hobo trying to channel in ancient roman toga vibe, or were too small, instead clinging to my ribs and riding up to bunch in uncomfortable places such as my armpits. About once a week, Moblit would go by the second-hand clothing shop and pick me up something. He could only bring one thing home at a time though; any more and his parents would notice. Since I wasn’t able to go with him without them getting suspicious, Moblit frequently had to eyeball the clothes, trying to guess as to whether they would fit me. He’d gotten better over the time I’ve lived with them, but still. They were often dirty, and so he would sneak them in with his own laundry since I wasn’t allowed to use the machines.

Thankfully, Moblit was also able to make sure I had basic products for cleanliness such as a toothbrush and deodorant. I don’t know what I would have done without him.

For three days each month though, everything would be normal. Or at least, they would _seem_ normal to an outsider. A day before the Social Workers would visit, all my laundry would be done my Mrs. Berner, Mr. Berner would throw out all his alcohol, Moblit and I would clean the entire house until it shined, and Mrs. Berner would make massive meals three times a day. Using fresh ingredients, too. Nothing like the hot pockets and instant ramen I lived off of for the rest of the month. I loved those three days per year. I could pretend like we were a happy family. 

That little fantasy I lived during those three days was so far from the truth though. It was the polar opposite. In reality, those three days of peace were the only thing preventing me from winding up at urgent care as often as Moblit did. Because the Social Workers came, Mr. Berner never hit me. He couldn’t, not without going to jail, and he knew it. That made him furious, because I certainly deserved it—at least in his mind. So he dished it out on Moblit. Because Moblit stood up for me. Because Moblit took care of me the way he was supposed to, and that angered him beyond imagination. He knew Moblit was a decent human being, whereas it was clear to anyone that he was not even close.

A few times though, he’s come close to hurting me; usually on those days when he’s so blackout drunk that he can’t even tell who he is facing. It’s then that Moblit will shove me into his room and scream at me to get out through the window and run. To not come back until night, when his dad would be passed out in a puddle of his own puke. 

The first time, I didn’t listen. I hid behind the door, peeking my head around, low to the ground to make it harder to see me. I watched as Mr. Berner slammed an ashtray into his wife’s head. Moblit then tackled him, attempting to land a punch to his face. He missed though. Mr. Berner was furious and he taught Moblit a lesson. The lesson didn’t stick though; a broken hip did nothing to stop Moblit from trying to defend his mom whenever she was facing the brunt of Mr. Berner’s wrath.

I don’t know why Moblit even bothered though. His mom hated him just as much as his dad did, even though it was in a different way. She was subtler in her hatred and abuse; no physical violence from her. She just belittled Moblit any chance she got. Insults, guilt trips, manipulation… That was her style. She had Moblit wrapped around her finger, believing that if he was just good enough, just a slightly better son, not such a disappointment, then she would love him. To him, his mother was perfect. She was the ultimate parent, and was just stuck living with a monster and a waste of space. And me. As much as he loved me, he couldn’t reconcile the two beliefs in his head; the first that I was being abused by his mother, and the second that his mother was just a poor victimized saint who had never done wrong. He held both those beliefs firmly in his mind, and often that led to him not knowing who's side to take whenever his mother acknowledged my existence and we fought.

Needless to say, after that one time of staying when I’d been told to get out, I always ran when told—always got out when I could. 

The city library was a fifteen-minute run from Moblit’s window. That became my standard haunt. The librarians were incredibly kind, even though I was always sweaty, dirty, and panting heavily from sprinting away from my problems. They’d let me curl up in a corner behind their desk with a book, any book, and read until they locked the doors for the night at 10pm. Not one of them ever asked why I needed to lose myself in a story to calm my breathing, why I would enthusiastically read any book I could grab regardless of the subject, why I was always dirty and scared looking, or why I was always alone. They never asked, but I think they knew. They knew that they provided the only refuge I could reach. Occasionally one would bring me a bit of homemade brownie or a can of soda, but that didn’t happen very often since the library did have a strict “no-food-or-drink” policy. I appreciated the secret snacks, nonetheless.

Reading became my escape. That, and talking to the librarians. I never told them about what was going on at home, but instead grilled them for information on whatever subjects they were interested in and soaked up all the facts like a sponge. My favorite thing to think about came from this one librarian who was no older than twenty. She was a big fan of metaphysics, and talked to me extensively about Descartes _Discourse on Method_. She’d told me her favorite quote, which came after a long spiel about dreams being reality: _”For how do we know that the thoughts that come in dreams are more false than those that we have when we are awake, seeing that often enough the former are not less lively and vivid than the latter?”_ Nothing made me happier that the idea that the dreams I had each night of a happy and loving family could be a form of reality, if not the _real_ reality. I knew deep down that that wasn’t the case, but imagining it was gave me more peace of mind than anything else I’d tried.

Except for one thing, that is. I don’t know when, but at some point, I’d begun to scratch myself. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to raise ugly red welts across my skin from where my nails had peeled off the layers of flesh. That helped most of all. It cleared my mind and slowed my heart rate faster than believable. It was amazing. I loved it.

I’d tried not to do it too often, just once every other week, but the frequency of the urges to scratch was increasing. Moblit was graduating high school this year, and then he was leaving for college. He didn’t want to leave, but I insisted. Did everything I could to convince him I would be fine here alone; that his parents would not hurt me. I knew they wouldn’t. It was more Djel I was worried about, although I wouldn’t let Moblit know that. 

Djel was the school bully. He’d decided one day to pick on me. It wasn’t anything too bad, just the usual sexual harassment that went hand-in-hand with being a teen in high school. It didn’t mean that I wasn’t disgusted by it. Thankfully, he’d mainly just stuck to catcalling and yelling disgusting things in the hallways, but the thought that he could do more always lurked in the back of my head. Moblit though, scared Djel away with his reputation of being a badass outside of school. Little did the student body know that Moblit’s bruised face and bloody knuckles weren’t caused from being in some sort of underground fighting ring like the rumors said, but were from his own parents. Those rumors helped us both out though. People left us alone, which was exactly what we wanted. 

It was the two of us against the world. 

Until it wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erica Carnea is a flower that stands for solitude.
> 
> Look forward to the next chapter September 5th!
> 
> Hit me up on tumblr if you wanna chat about whatever. URL: theraven4597.tumblr.com
> 
> Also... comments are always appreciated. I'd love to know what everyone thinks of this.


	3. Red Spider Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mind is a dark place so let’s turn off the flashlights cause there’s some things there that even we don’t want to find about ourselves.  
> —   
> that-one-guys-brother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So reminder to check the listed archive warnings and tags. Graphic self-harm in this chapter.
> 
> Also, this chapter takes place a year after the previous one.

“I bet I could make you want it.” Djel had pinned me against my locker. 

I could smell the garlic stench in his sweat. His scruffy attempt at a beard scratched at my jaw, from where he shoved his face up to my ear to whisper his nasty words.

Even shoving him as hard as I could, I couldn’t get him to move away. “I… I told you no! I’m not interested!” I stuttered, hating the way my voice cracked.

“Come on, baby. If you keep being so frigid, nobody’s gonna want you. I’m trying to help you here. You don’t want to die alone, do you?” His voice took on a slippery quality that made shudders run down my spine. I felt like I was going to vomit.

“Why would a guy wanna be with you, if you won’t ever bang him? Men have needs, you know. You think somebody’s gonna stick around because they like your company? You’re a nerd with a superiority complex. People only put up with you if they want to fuck you.” He scoffed, warm, foul breath coasting over my ear and neck.

I wished Moblit was here. If he hadn’t graduated, he’d be able to keep me safe from Djel. Djel was afraid of Moblit. 

I forced my mind away from my current predicament, and tried to focus on something positive. I was a senior. I earned a scholarship to Mitras U. I would be gone in a few months. I had a 4.0 grade average. Was going to graduate Valedictorian. I was the pride and joy of Trost High. Djel Sanes was at the bottom of all of his classes. Even though he had parents who would pay for his education, his only ambitions were to have sex with every girl in the school, and to bully those that his small mind couldn’t understand. His only future was that of a janitor at the Food Lion down the street, while I was going places. Good places. Good places where he couldn’t follow me.

A warm, wet sensation in my ear brought me out of my mental escape. Djel’s tongue. Before I could think about my actions, I brought my knee up sharply and hit him square in the balls.

He doubled over with a groan, letting go of me in the process, and I took my chance to dart away. Bile rose in my throat, and I barely made it into the bathroom before I lost the contents of my stomach in the closest sink.

The sting of the stomach acid in my nose brought tears to my eyes. No. I couldn’t cry. I had one class left for the day, and it was AP Psychology. My favorite class. Trost had a professor from Mitras out on a loan of sorts to teach this year. Dr. Pixis. He was a fantastic teacher, but he made me nervous. His beady eyes always looked like they were peering into my soul. I was afraid of what he would find there. 

Wiping my eyes, nose, and mouth, I tried to shove down the dark emotions that had begun swirling inside me. I needed to wait until I got home. I couldn’t get rid of them here. No. Anybody could find me, and I might end up late for class. I had a perfect attendance record, and wasn’t about to let that get sullied. I needed to control myself. Hold the feelings in. Wait. Wait until I could heal them.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Barricading myself in my room, I finally let go of the tears I had held in for so long.

I felt hollow. Disgusted. Panicked. I was going to die alone. Who would love me? According to my friends, I was just a “special snowflake,” desperate for attention. Djel said I was a stuck-up bitch. What guy would want me if I wasn’t willing to sleep with him? I don’t feel the things that 99% of the population does. Am I broken? Am I even human? They all said I was a freak, abnormal, an outsider. They were right. They had to be.

If by some miracle I found a man who loved me in spite of my asexuality, I would never have a normal relationship with him. I would never be able to look at him and tell him that he is so incredibly hot, or that I can’t wait for us both to get home from work because I’m horny and he’s the only one who can satisfy me. I’ll never be able to tell him how sexy I think he is, or how much I physically need him. What if he gets bored, and moves on? What if he wants a girl who wants him sexually as much as he wants her? I was broken. Sick. Damaged and alone.

I wasn’t good enough for platonic relationships either. Only two people had ever shown they cared about me; Papa and Moblit. But most likely, that was just out of pity. My birth parents didn’t want me, the Berners only cared about the money they were paid, my ‘friends’ were more just people I hung around, but none of them ever reached out to me. It was always me, following them around like a pathetic stray dog, pestering them for their attention.

And Moblit. Why did he care about me? I was worthless. He was hit every single day, and I’d had the power to stop it. I could have, with just one word to the social workers who came by. Just one word. Yet I stayed silent. It was what he had wanted, but that didn’t mean it was right. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to help him. Couldn’t do anything but try to wipe the blood off his face in the darkness of my closet where I’d let him hide when he’d needed to. I was worthless.

In my anguish, I had started unconsciously scratching at the exposed skin of my thigh. The sharp sting my nails brought provided a slight relief, but it wasn’t enough. After a year of working, it wasn’t enough. I… I needed more. More pain. More relief. The emotional agony was too much to take. I hated that I couldn’t touch it. I need something tangible. Something to distract from the pain inside. 

I quickly walked to the kitchen, skirting around a pile of dog piss that my foster “parents” didn’t feel like cleaning. As I passed by the living room, I could see them in there sprawled before the tv in a drunken stupor. A dozen empty beer bottles lay scattered amongst empty bags of potato chips and cigarette packs. Disgusting.

They didn’t look up as I headed back towards my room carrying a knife and a lighter. 

Locking the bedroom door, I collapsed on my bed finally releasing the sobs I had held in when I was outside the safety of my room. Struggling into a sitting position, I stripped off my dingy clothes and tossed them to the floor. With a firm grip on the knife, I sterilized the blade with the lighter, then slowly pressed the tip into the fleshy part of my inner thigh. Before it pierced the skin, I realized that it wouldn’t do. There were major arteries there. I wanted relief, but not the kind that suicide would bring. I was afraid to die. I wanted my life to be over, but I couldn’t take it myself. Moving the blade to the firm muscle on my hip, I paused and took a deep breath.

Pressing firmly, the blade cut into my skin, bringing a bubble of red blood. Seeing it didn’t have the desired effect though. The sight of my lifeblood made me nauseous. No. This was wrong. There was no way I could cut myself.

I quickly replaced the knife with the lighter. Fire would be better than blood. I always had a slight pyromaniac streak anyways. I clicked the flame on and brought it to the cut I had made, before pausing. What was I thinking? Burning my thigh was a terrible idea. My ribcage would be better. That way, the scars left would always be hidden under clothes. 

I brought the flame to my right side, and held it to the skin there. The pain was only tolerable for a brief second, before I turned the flame off with a gasp. Shit. Fire hurt. I threw the lighter across the room, and it crashed into my door.

No more.

It wasn’t enough. It helped, but not completely. The pain was lessened a little bit, but it still was eating away at my insides. Not enough. More. 

I spent the rest of the night clawing at my skin.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The lighter lay where it landed behind the door when I tossed it away two months ago. I couldn’t drag my focus away from it. It felt like it was calling me, beckoning. Promising relief. Relief I could find nowhere else. I’d resisted it. Resisted for two solid months. No fire. I scratched more than ever before, purposely letting my fingernails grow jagged, so that it would be easier to carve lines into my flesh. 

I couldn’t take it anymore. No more resisting. I jumped up and snatched the lighter from where it had landed all those days ago, and sat cross-legged on my ratty comforter.

I lit the lighter, and tried again, placing the flame over one of the fingernail scars on my hip. First time in two months using a lighter. It hurt like hell, but not as bad as I remembered. I held it in place until I could smell the stench of burned flesh, then moved the flame upwards to fresh skin. Repeating that action over and over, I could feel the pain in my soul evaporating, and my mind clearing. My breathing became easier. Waiting a few more seconds, I clicked the flame off and surveyed the damage. 

There was a blister, blackened in places and oozing puss in others. About the size of my hand, it stretched from just under where the band of my bra sat to the swell of my hip. It would do nicely, I thought with a smile.

It worked. The agony was gone. A euphoric rush washed over me. Finally. I was free from the demons inside me, even if only temporarily.

When I went to bed that night, even though it took a little bit to find a position that didn’t irritate my burns enough to keep me up, I had the best sleep I could remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red spider lilies symbolism abandonment. I feel like there are several ways that theme is visible in this chapter, but I'll let y'all think on it yourselves and form your own opinions.
> 
> I'd love some feedback on this! You can also find me on tumblr at theraven4597.tumblr.com


	4. Primrose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter include: rape/non-con situation, graphic descriptions of violence, and suicide mention.

It was summer. School had ended, and I had nothing to keep me away from the demons in my mind. Nobody to blame for my problems but myself. I didn’t care though. I didn’t care about anything.

I didn’t care that Djel had left me alone the rest of the school year. I didn’t care that I had worn the same outfit for a week in a row. I burned myself daily now. The pain always faded away too quick. My entire right side, stretching from my hip all the way up to parts of my breast, from my navel around to my spine, was burned. Melted. Blistered. I didn’t care about that either. It’s not like anybody was ever going to see me shirtless. I hadn’t eaten in three days, and my hair resembled an oily rats-nest. I couldn’t see the floor in my bedroom, because of all the clutter lying around. There was a family of cockroaches that had moved in with the mouse that lived under my dresser. None of the people I had called my friends cared about me. My books had water stains, bent pages, and had been permeated with the smell of my cooked flesh. I was almost fascinated with how easily paper picks up the scents in the air around it. Almost, but not quite. I couldn’t bring myself to care, really. I was just so tired. There were dark bags under my eyes, and all my body was so heavy. Moving was hard.

My mind worked slower than it ever had. It took me twice as long to make connections, or come up with answers. I saw everything through a fog and nothing seemed real. All I focused on was sleep and studying. 

_“If you study hard, you can do anything.”_

Papa’s words wouldn’t leave my mind. He had repeated them to me so often, that they had taken root in my soul against my will. I wanted to forget them. I wanted to forget him. I wanted to float in the numbness and the black. I wanted to fade away into nothingness. But I couldn’t. Papa’s words wouldn’t let me. I tried to waste my time away doing nothing, but I couldn’t. Every time I tried, I’d hear him. _Go anywhere. Do anything. Only if you study hard.”_

Because of him, I was taking CLEP tests until college starts in September. I had earned credits for most of my Gen-Ed classes, so I would be able to jump right in with my degree-focused courses. The tests and the books cost a bit, but I was using the money that Moblit gave to me. Whenever he was home on break, he’d slip me some more. Since I wasn’t eating much, and hadn’t bought new clothes in over a year, I had plenty to spend on my education. 

The “parents” didn’t care where I went, as long as I didn’t spend any of their “good money.” I could stay out as late as I wanted, they told me, during one of the rare moments where they acknowledged my existence. All I had to do was leave my bedroom window unlocked, and I could just crawl in and out that way. I never took them up on it. There was nowhere I wanted to go. Nowhere worse than here, but nowhere better out there. At least in my room I didn’t have access to those substances that I wanted to try, yet knew would destroy my mind. So I stayed.

I had decided to major in Psychology. It had been my favorite class in school. Hopefully, I would enjoy it once the courses started. I hadn’t been enjoying anything recently; except for my burning, that is. I couldn’t stop. I loved it. I knew I needed to stop, but I couldn’t. It was more addicting than I’d imagined when I started. Pain, release, high, crash, repeat. That was my life, just with a few easy tests thrown in to break up the monotony. 

One test a week. A pace much faster than most. All of them passed, except for one test on art history. Art history was stupid. Whatever. 

Because of how many credits I’d earned, I would be able to graduate in my sophomore year, and proceed right into the Masters program, and eventually get my doctorate. As bored as I was with the idea, I wouldn’t let myself fail. I had to succeed, otherwise I’d just stay in this hell hole forever.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
I was walking back from the test center, when Djel appeared in front of me, one of his greasy-looking friends behind him. 

“It’s payback time, bitch.” He snarled, grabbing my hoodie and dragging me into an empty alley, before slamming me chest first against a wall. 

The rough brick scratched my face, and rubbed against my blisters. I hissed in pain, but it was a good pain. I was afraid of what Djel and his friend would do, but the pain felt good. It was calming. Comforting. Familiar. 

“We’re gonna have some fun together Hanji.” He whispered, pressing himself firmly against by back. I could feel something hard prodding right above my butt, and after a brief moment of confusion, it dawned on me what it was. His erect penis. 

_No no no no no no no this is not happening. Not to me. No._

I found it in me to care again. I wasn’t going down without a fight. As his fingers began to skim up and down my sides, I flung my head backwards, and managed to connect it with his nose with a sickening crunch. He fell back, and I quickly turned to face him and the other assailant. Djel clutched at his face, blood gushing from a clearly broken nose. 

“Don’t just stand there Ralph! Do something! Hit the bitch!” He yelled at his friend, red fluid spraying from his mouth. Blood mixed with spittle. He must have bit his tongue.

Ralph stepped forward and threw a punch at my gut. The impact hit my blisters and burns, causing me to hiss at the pain mixed with pleasure. I doubled over, as Ralph threw another punch, and then another, and another. Eventually, I collapsed to the dirty alley floor, and Djel stood to join in. The pain with each hit had completely faded by this point. All I could feel was pleasure and relief from each strike. 

I started laughing, with what little breath I had. The situation really cracked me up. Here Djel and Ralph were, trying to hurt me, but they didn’t know that I already hurt myself so much worse. They didn’t know that the blows they rained down on me only made me feel comfort and peace. I lay there smiling, content to take what they gave me.

“Djel, is she… laughing?” Ralph’s voice cracked in hesitation. “She shouldn’t be laughing. This is freaking me out. Let’s leave. Something’s not right in her head.”

Djel delivered one last kick to my side, before turning to walk away after Ralph. I don’t know how long I laid there for, but eventually the spinning in my mind stopped and I slowly tried to stand. My knee almost gave out on me, and standing completely vertical was not an option.

Slowly, I made my way towards the hellhole I called home.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
This time, I did sneak in through my bedroom window. Locking it was never something that I’d ever bothered to do. That way, if a robber came in during the night, he would hopefully kill me first and put me out of my misery. 

I did want to die, desperately. Suicide was something that I thought about on a regular basis, but I was too afraid to actually take that step. I could only hope that someone would do it for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter left after this! Thanks for reading.


	5. Wisteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Understanding is the first step to acceptance, and only with acceptance can there be recovery."  
> —   
> J.K. Rowling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To answer your question, yes; I am aware that this is not a Monday. But life has been stressful and posting stories is relaxing to me. Therefore, we have a Friday update.
> 
> **Note:** This chapter jumps ahead to Hanji's college years.

In the lecture hall, a huge guy sat down next to me. I stayed hunched over my desk, only glancing up at him in what I hoped was an inconspicuous manner. My quick glance caused me to turn and fully look at him. Damn, those eyebrows. They were massive; majestic even. Holy hell.

He noticed my staring and gave a confident grin, before extending his hand. 

“My name is Erwin.” He said, with a deep voice. 

His grin set me on edge. I had seen that look before. It was the look of a man who knew what he wanted, and had no qualms with manipulating others to achieve his goals. I would have to tread carefully around him.

“Hanji.” I responded, voice barely a whisper. His handshake was firm, and his palms were rough.

“You majoring in a health field?” He asked, rumbling voice calling to mind images of earthquakes and rockslides.

It took me a second to realize that he was referencing the advanced anatomy class we were sitting in for. “Psychology.” I muttered. He looked interested, so I spoke up a bit more and continued. “I’m a psychology major, and I’m working on a paper about the physical effects of mental health.” My scarred side could attest to the fact that I had a lot of experience in that area.

“Very interesting. I’m in the military.”

That peaked my interest. “Really? Army doctor or something?”

“Nope. I’m just interested in ways that I can use the human body to my advantage.” He replied with a slight smirk.

Hell no. Total pervert alert. My face hardened, and I turned to face the front of the room.

A soft laugh emanated from the creep next to me. I cut my eyes over, and snarled my lip when I saw his blushing grin. He thinks he’s so funny. Utterly disgusting.

“I probably should have phrased that better. I didn’t mean it the way you’re thinking. I’m interested in anatomy for the purposes of using it to… persuade captured Titans into giving up information that they are… reluctant to share.” He looked bashful. “I was trying to word that in a way that didn’t make me sound like a monster, but I just wound up sounding like a perv, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. You did.” I said, giving him a half-smile. Before I could say more, the professor entered the room, and called for the students’ attention.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
In the middle of my first year of the Masters degree program, Professor Pixis pulled me aside after class one day.

“Hanji, if you ever need to talk to anyone, come find me. I can tell you’ve been through a lot, and I know what you do to yourself.” Dread filled my gut and I started hyperventilating. How? How did he know about the burns? Would he not let me become a psychiatrist? Nobody would want a doctor who was addicted to self-harm. That wouldn’t be beneficial to anybody. I hadn’t quit yet. I had begun to wean myself off of my dependence on burns, but I was still addicted. It wasn’t a daily habit, more like every two or three days, but still. I still did it, so the frequency didn’t matter. It still happened, and the burns I left behind were worse than ever before. I substituted my less frequent burning with making the burns more severe. I was going to quit though, eventually, before I ever took on a patient. 

Before I could start a full-blown panic attack, he continued. “It’s not obvious, don’t worry. More of an educated guess, really. I can see it in your eyes, in the way you move, in the way you think. It’s all over you, to someone who knows what signs to look for. I can also see that you’re doing it less and less. That’s good. I’m proud of you. If you don’t mind my asking, did it start your senior year in high school?” His eyes were kind and warm. 

I kept my eyes on the floor, and whispered no. “Junior year.” Six years I had spent on my self-harm. Six years.

He hummed in acknowledgement. “What have you done to help stop? There are a variety of different methods that doctors suggest, but none are perfect.”

I almost walked away. I didn’t want to talk about this. It humiliated me. It was a failure in my life, and I was ashamed by it.

Pixis could tell, because he then told me something that I knew would haunt my mind even more than Papa’s words of encouragement. “It’s not something to be ashamed of, Hanji. Whatever scars you have, they are a sign of battles you have fought, and won. You didn’t let them destroy you. You kept fighting. You survived. Be proud of it. So many can’t say the same.”

“Nothing. I haven’t done anything to stop. I can’t yet. Soon, but not yet.”

“That’s ok. I know you can, when you’re ready. If I can offer some advice though; whatever’s causing this, find a group of people going through the same thing. There are clubs all over campus that you can join, anonymous meetings all throughout the city. Do that for me, ok?” His eyes were so soft looking, his face so kind.

“Ok.” I whispered.

That night, I went to the dumpster outside my dorm. Digging around in my satchel, I pulled out my lighters. Three of them. I held my arm through the dumpster opening. Staring at them, sitting in my hand, they felt so heavy. So many years of hate and abuse and agony stored in these small objects. A tear slipped down my cheek. I couldn’t move my hand; couldn’t let them go.

I withdrew my arm, turned and slid down to a sitting position, back propped against the dumpster. Grabbing my phone, I placed a call. I told zir where I was, and asked zir to come. Said I needed zir help. Leaning my head back, I closed my eyes and waited.

“Hanji? What’s wrong? You sounded pretty torn up on the phone.” Nanaba asked. I looked up at my best friend and former roommate with a broken smile. 

“I need you, Nana.” I sighed as I slowly stood. The current blisters made the act of standing painful.

I held out my hand with the lighters. “I need to throw these away. Help me?” 

Zie looked confused, but must have been able to see how important this was to me, so zie agreed.

I held my flat palm over the dumpster again, lighters balancing across my fingers easily. and Nanaba wrapped zir hand around my wrist. 

“Ready?” Zie asked. I nodded, because my throat was incapable of forming words.

Nanaba twisted my wrist slowly, and the lighters fell in with a thud that was felt deep in my soul, more than heard with my ears.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Nanaba helped me through it all. I told zir everything and zie were shocked. Surprised at how well I hid my addiction. Sad that I had felt like I needed to suffer through it alone. Accepted me and my sexuality. Told me I was wonderful, amazing, and irreplaceable. Totally valid, healthy, and whole. Zie had wrapped me in a hug, and didn’t let go for what felt like forever. It was wonderful. After not having any real physical contact with another human for so long, having Nanaba cuddle with me was euphoric. When zie finally moved to let go, I was tempted to squeeze zir tighter. 

Zie didn’t judge me for what I had done to myself. Congratulated me on taking steps to stop. Cared for me during my withdrawals; the headaches, the vomiting, the phantom pain on my torso where my mind knew fresh burns should have been appearing. Encouraged me through the times when I wanted to relapse. Supported me during the several times I actually did relapse.

I had recently graduated with my PhD, and had just been hired at Trost Psychiatric Health and Wellness. I hadn’t burned myself in two years. The worst of the withdrawals were gone, but there were still cravings. On days when I was stressed, times when I felt lonely, or even just bored, those were the times I felt an itch in my fingers, felt an urge to play with fire, to solve my problems with heat, blisters, and bandages. I had opened Pandora’s box fourteen years ago, tasted the forbidden fruit. The flavor would never fully leave my mind, but I refused to indulge the addiction any more. 

I found ways to distract myself, when the craving would pick up. Reading was my main escape from the dark and dangerous thoughts. It gave my mind time to calm before I would begin to analyze what is stressing me, and how to fix it. 

I didn’t keep candles in the house. Didn’t own any matches or lighters. Refused to let the electric stove in my apartment be replaced with a gas one when the buildings were renovated. I didn’t allow any flames near me. 

It had been a long, hard road, but I overcame it. I found friendship and love; I created my own family. I accepted myself, learned to love who I was, asexuality and all. I still wasn’t sure whether or not I would ever find romance, but it didn’t matter to me so much anymore. I had Nanaba, Moblit, and my patients. They cared about me, they needed me. They were my family. If I never found another family, if I never fell in love and was never loved in return, I would still survive. I would always survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wisteria stands for victory over hardship. 
> 
> So! Broken is complete! I want to say thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed, gave a kudos, or bookmarked this story. I know it was difficult to read at points, but I really appreciate everyone who gave it a shot.
> 
> For those of you who read Psychiatrist, you can look forward to another update to it soon.


End file.
